Saturday, February 11, 2006

The power of hating the company

I spent the night in jail because I beat up that Mexican cop who slapped my best friend's uncle in the face with a 45 revolver. Right before the cops came to arrest all three of us, I swallowed a few pain pills to make it the paddy wagon more enjoyable, if there is such a thing as an enjoyable paddy wagon.

They leave you in there, trapped in the paddy wagon, paranoid, in pain from your fisticuffs, a swollen hand that I kept rubbing and staring at...

...and you're suffocating and delirious with the cologne and body order stench of other hoodlum males,

after picking up some more street scoundrels on the way to the county jail, so if you, like me, are claustrophobic,

you are up a certain creekwithout a paddle (American idiom meaning "in big trouble, with no helpers").

Some Puerto Rican dude came in and used the holding cell floor as a toilet, repeatedly.

When the cops moved him to another cell, the twelve black brothers and I yelled at him hatefully, "We're all gonna kick your ass when we get out of here. You watch your back." Many other unmentionable words were added to this warning, to make it memorable.

They respected me, the black guys.


Well, I was pounding on the Mexican cop, I mean a Mexican who, when in Mexico, is a cop, but when up here, he's always wanted by the [American] cops, in and out of jail, assault and battery mainly. See? Slugging away at the guy, who I happened to like a lot, because he was starting to pick a fight with my other friend, Charley Hickey (of our bands $10 Worth of Musical Instruments and Charlie Hickey and the Lovebites).

Oy. I keep telling Charlie to write his novels deconstructively, "start anywhere" I say to him. I say: "Start your auto-biographical novel anywhere, with the weirdest anecdote, without explaining anything, just slam the reader into the story at its most bizarre moment, then work your way around the time sphere to fill in details gradually, unfolding like a daisy into the sunlight." He disagrees. He has some other plan, I suppose, even infinitely better than my proposed method. But it's the method I use, so it's necessarily the one I recommend.

I was having a panic attack, as Charlie and Martine argued, and to get rid of the panic, boxing seemed to be the best thing at the moment.

I pounded and pounded and the Mexican, who I happened to be good friends with, despite his habit of hitting people with guns to demand a ride (Uncle: "I'll get you a ride, alright. One ride coming up!" He called the cops.), he kept questioning me on the ride to the jailhouse. Pestering me. "Why? Why did you beat on me?" he kept asking.

I ignored him. If I said anything the wrong way, the other toughs would think I was conciliatory and immoderately acquiescent. So that's one reason why the black toughs liked me right off the bat.

In the holding cell, they gave me wide berth, eyeing the grotesquely swollen fist.

"You must have been angry," one black guy commented. "You have to hit someone pretty hard and repeatedly for your hand to swell up that big."

They thought I was insane, thus, dangerous--and to be respected on that account. Hey, I'm not choosey. I'll get my fear anyway I can.

Another reason for their respect was how I was dressed.

Charlie got smart with a couple black dudes, and said, "Me and my buddy Steve will take you on anytime." or some dumb remark. I remained silent and unyielding. They noticed I refused to form an alliance with drunk Charlie.

"That other white dude {me} isn't going to join you dude," one said. "I can tell by your dress code, you don't respect yourself." Charlie was dressed like a bum. I was dressed cool, as always. Since I had recently shaved my head with my razor sharp pocket knife, I looked like a rascal.

One black guy called his girlfriend. "Baby, I'm scared," he said, so she'd be less mad at him for being in jail, I suppose. "I'm in here with all these crackhead gangbangers and white power skinheads." Skinheads, meaning me. I laughed easily as I nursed my swollen fist and glared at the floor.

In any fight, the winner will be the one with the most hate, and the loser will be the one with the most fear.

You come against me with force, violence, or weapons, and I'll always beat you.


With superior mind enslavement techniques, omnipotent aggression, and way way way way way more HATE. Hate always wins over fear and power. Hate is what causes all revolutions and innovations.

Progress comes from HATE, not love. We just have to learn what and how to hate.

"Love the norm," plead the mediocre.

"Love status quo," chants the loser.

"Love the employer," vomits the butt kisser.


NEVER love a company or employer or product. Love only what they can DO for a customer.

To be a good employee, you have to HATE your employer, in order to love the customer. Why? You must HATE what is wrong in the company. You must hate what stands between the customer and his or her needs. And this is always the company.

The company is the enemy of the customer. The frontline worker and sales staff especially, should be, the ally of the customer and the enemy of the company.

As you see what the customer needs, you realize the following:

(1) The company either doesn't have it, or has a crappy, over-priced piece of junk.

(2) The company doesn't care what the customer needs.

(3) The company wants to make the customer want what they've got in stock now.

(4) To help the customer, you'll have to fight the company.

(5) To fight the company, you need superior facts, data, courage and compassion.

(6) In fighting the company, you're trying to force it to be what it claims to be.

Now, go to work tomorrow and find something to hate. Something that is not excellant, not astonishing, not working correctly...and fix it.

[signed] steven ed streight also known to be vaspers t g

1 comment:

carrie said...

sounds like an adventure